


Till There Was You

by siriusblue



Series: In A Hundred Lifetimes [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Broken Bones, First Kiss, First Meetings, Idiots in Love, Libraries, M/M, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-24 03:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17696789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblue/pseuds/siriusblue
Summary: History professor and lifelong bookworm Mycroft Holmes retires and leaves London for what he hopes will be a rural idyll. What he gets is a broken leg and the friendship of the postmistress who directs him to the local library in an attempt to broaden his literary horizons. She fails to mention her hope that librarian Greg Lestrade will provide more for him than a few good books.





	Till There Was You

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Bis du da warst](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18546469) by [StarsAndStitches](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsAndStitches/pseuds/StarsAndStitches)



> Thanks to the AU prompt generator on Twitter for providing the seed for this one and to all my.lovely mutuals who begged very nicely for this to be written.
> 
> The books Greg gives to Mycroft are real and all worth reading, the author of Greg's favourite is a very fine writer called Patrick Gale.

TILL THERE WAS YOU.

  
  
  


Retirement suited Professor Mycroft Holmes. To his deep satisfaction the money from the sale of his flat in London had been more than enough to purchase a well-appointed bungalow with a tidy garden in the village of Oldcastle;a place he had spent a lot of time in both during the academic year for book research and during the long vac for the warmth and conviviality of the guest house and local pub.

 

Oldcastle was used to incomers. The locals treated new residents with cautious respect until they proved themselves. Mycroft reckoned he'd be fine in about another thirty years.

 

His days were spent sedately;reading all the trashy novels and crime stories he had never had time for when he was working, passing rude commentary on what passed for entertainment on daytime TV, experimenting in the tiny kitchen and half-heartedly typing a line or two of his new book.

 

He realised that a new biography of John of Gaunt would hardly set the publishing world alight but he rather  _ did  _ hope that it would provoke some decent academic debate.

 

He switched the kettle on and spooned instant coffee into a mug. He cursed fluently when he realised he was out of milk. Fortunately the village had an excellent shop that was a mere stroll from his house.

 

It was raining and he was grateful for the shelter of his umbrella. He didn't realise quite how slippery the grass was until his feet shot out from under him and he landed in an ungainly heap. It was only when he tried to move that he felt the excruciating pain.

 

He may have screamed. He couldn't remember through the red mist of agony.

 

There was a familiar female voice.

 

“Professor Holmes! Are you all right?”

 

Mrs Hudson, owner of the post office was suddenly there in front of him.

 

“No, of course you're not. Your foot definitely shouldn't be facing that way. Hang on, I've got my phone here…”

 

He listened as she rang for an ambulance and admired her no-nonsense tone with whoever was on the other end of the line.

 

“Won't be long,” she said comfortingly. “They'll get you fixed up in no time.”

 

“Thank you,” he whispered.

 

Sure enough, the ambulance arrived swiftly and the two green-clad paramedics assessed him and infused him with something through a cannula that made the pain subside to a dull throb before moving him onto the stretcher and whisking him away.

 

*

 

The doctor who examined Mycroft in the emergency department looked ridiculously young. She placed Mycroft's x-rays on the light board and painstakingly pointed out how he had managed to break his tibia and displace his ankle.

 

“You'll need surgery,” she warned him. “The displacement needs reduced and the fracture will need stabilised. I'll get someone from orthopaedics to come and talk to you, Professor.”

 

“Thank you,” he replied courteously.

 

*

 

Two days later, Mycroft was sat in the reception area of the hospital, his crutches on the seat beside him and a bag of heavy-duty painkillers in his hand. He looked forlornly at the long white cast sticking out from under what had been a perfectly good pair of tweeds. He had been sternly lectured about the dangers of pills and alcohol and the necessity of returning for his outpatient appointments which he had borne with his usual barely-concealed impatience.

 

He dredged up a smile for the young man in the ambulance service uniform who approached him.

 

“Let's get you home, sir. I'll take that bag so you've got both hands free. There. It's just outside. Take your time.”

 

Mycroft managed to hobble out to the waiting ambulance and settled into his seat, watching as they drove back to Oldcastle.

 

“Here you are, sir. Oh, looks like they've been waiting for you.” said the ambulance driver.

 

“What on earth…”

 

Waiting outside his house were Mrs Hudson and Molly from the village shop.

 

“There you are,” said Mrs Hudson cheerfully. “Give me your keys and Molly and I will get you comfy.”

 

Mycroft thanked the driver, ignoring the man's frankly salacious grin, and handed Mrs Hudson his keys.

 

He quickly found himself ensconced in his favourite chair with a steaming mug of tea in his hand and his broken leg propped up on a stool.

 

“There's milk in the fridge and a small loaf in the bread bin.” Molly told him. “I doubt you'll be able to stand around for long so I've put a few ready meals in the freezer that you just need to pop in the microwave.”

 

Mycroft felt his eyes prickling with tears.

 

“This is incredibly kind of you both.”

 

Mrs Hudson patted him on the shoulder.

 

“You're one of us now, Professor. We look after our own. Besides, there isn't anyone to keep an eye on you, is there?”

 

“No, I've always lived alone. I have a brother but he lives in Surrey with his husband. They keep bees.”

 

“That's nice,” she said with a smile.

 

“We're not close.”

 

“I gathered. No boyfriend either?”

 

Mycroft spluttered his tea.

 

“I think I'm a little old to be anyone's  _ boyfriend,  _ Mrs Hudson.”

 

“Cobblers.” she replied. “A nice bloke would do you the world of good. Never say never, eh?”

 

Mycroft smiled at her foolishness. He had had his chances but had settled for a cloistered academic life and had resigned to spending his later years alone.

 

“Well, quite.”

 

Molly emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

 

“I've made up a big flask of tea for you, Professor, and left the biscuits where you can grab them. Wait a minute, why are you blushing?”

 

Mycroft cursed his fair skin that made him flush so easily either through temper or embarrassment and replied self consciously.

 

“Mrs Hudson thinks I need a boyfriend. And thank you very much, Mrs Moriarty.”

 

Molly scribbled down something on the pad beside his phone.

 

“That's my mobile number and the shop number. If you need anything. You can put them in your  mobile later. If I'm not there, Jim will be. And please, call me Molly.”

 

“Molly it is. I'm very grateful. Thank you both.”

 

“I'll pop round tomorrow before I open the post office. Just to make sure you're okay.” said Mrs Hudson.

 

“Very well. As long as you don't mind seeing me in my pyjamas.”

 

The volume of Mrs Hudson's snort could have won prizes.

 

As they left, Molly handed Mycroft his laptop.

 

“Save you getting up. See you soon, Professor.”

 

“Mycroft.”

 

“Mycroft. Martha, you ready?”

 

When the two women had left, Mycroft reflected on exactly how much support he would have had if this had happened in London. 

 

“I'd probably still be lying in the street with people stepping over me,” he muttered as he switched on his laptop and began typing.

 

*

 

Mrs Hudson and Molly crossed the village green and headed for the Sunne In Splendour pub where they purchased white wine spritzers and ordered toasted sandwiches before finding a seat.

 

“You're at it again, Martha. Admit it.” Molly teased.

 

“It worked out for you and Jim. And Anthea and Doctor Mike. And Sally and Sarah. You know who he'd be absolutely perfect for, don't you?”

 

“No. Who?”

 

“Did you see the huge amount of books he has? He's going to need a fresh supply if he's stuck here with a broken leg. And who better to help him find a new literary niche than our librarian?”

 

“Possibly. I don't know if he's Greg's type though.”

 

“Bet you a fiver?”

 

Molly groaned but shook on it. This would be interesting to watch.

 

*

 

Two weeks later Mycroft was going mad with boredom.

 

The provision of a walking plaster on his leg and elbow crutches in no way made wearing cut off sweatpants any easier in his opinion and he mourned his favourite tweeds.

 

Sainsbury's home delivery took care of his modest food needs but only where the village shop was deficit, Molly's husband Jim was more than happy to assist with his shopping, chattering away in his Dublin brogue as Mycroft selected Parmesan and Serrano ham, kalamata olives and fresh cheese, organic vegetables and meat from the local farm.

 

Mrs Hudson had taken to dropping by after she closed the post office, just to make sure he was okay and they had quickly become friends. 

 

The fact that he appeared a little grumpy that day didn't escape her as she received little more than a generic grunt in thanks for her gift of chocolate HobNobs and made rather more noise than was necessary switching the kettle on and spooning coffee into their mugs.

 

“What's the matter?” she asked.

 

“Nothing,” Mycroft insisted.

 

“Bollocks. You're bored, aren't you?”

 

“Out of my impressively large mind,” Mycroft admitted.

 

He gestured around his living room with its heavy well-polished furniture and carpets vacuumed to within an inch of their life.

 

“Soo Lin is a marvel,” he said. “She keeps this house immaculate. I will miss her when she goes to university.”

 

“Her parents are a lot happier that she's cleaning for you three days a week than any other job she could be doing. Besides, you'll be able to do your own cleaning when she goes to Oxford.”

 

“I shall miss her nonetheless. There are things I should be doing in the garden. I'm not sure what exactly but Mrs Turner next door is always pottering around in hers. Any tips?”

 

Mrs Hudson laughed and helped herself to another biscuit.

 

“No. Why don't you read a book? God knows there's plenty of them in here.”

 

“I've read everything in the house. There's nothing new on Amazon I want and my own book has reached a temporary hiatus which can only be resolved by boots on the ground research. Do you perhaps have some Mills and Boon I might borrow?”

 

The latter was said with a cheeky twinkle in his eye that reassured Mrs Hudson that her new friend was definitely getting better.

 

“Git. I've got better things to do with my time than read that stuff. Why don't you go to the library?” 

 

“I wasn't aware this village  _ had  _ such an institution.”

 

“You're partly right. It's not quite what you'd expect, being a university man, but it's got a fairly good selection of stuff. You should have a look.”

 

“I shall.”

 

“It's in the old village school.” Mrs Hudson checked her watch. “They're open from five till eight tonight. The council refused to fund it any more so it's run by volunteers. Greg's always trying to fundraise or recruit fresh blood so watch yourself.”

 

“I'll take that under advisement. Greg?”

 

“Retired here same as you. You can ask him yourself later.”

 

“If I go.”

 

“It's either that or you stay here and stay bored.”

 

“There is that,” he conceded.

 

*

 

The old village school was a bit further than he had thought so by the time Mycroft reached the single-story building his arms ached and he was in need of a sit down. Luckily there was a ramp to the front door so he stumped in and looked around belligerently for a seat.

 

*

 

Gregory Lestrade Q.C.(retired) stood behind the desk in one of his favourite places in the world and breathed in the smell of paper and dust and a slightly worrying hint of damp. He checked on the computer to see if there were any overdue notices he needed to send out and, seeing none, grasped the returns trolley and began to replace the books.

 

He heard the front door open, then shut then there was an exasperated sigh. Greg turned to see a man he had never met before but knew instinctively who he had to be. The leg in plaster was a massive clue in itself. He had had the whole story from Martha. What she hadn't mentioned was quite how handsome this Professor Holmes was with his red hair and beard both turning silver, a regal nose and a pair of aquamarine eyes that were looking at him like he had just fallen out of the sky.

 

“Hello,” said Greg. “Why don't you have a seat? You look like you've had quite a walk.”

 

Mycroft dropped gracelessly into the proffered chair, at the same time plotting the slow painful death of one Mrs Martha Hudson for her oversight in not telling him that the librarian was the most exquisite creature to walk on the earth. Had he known, he would have made an effort not to wear cut down sweat pants and an elderly Oxford Rowing Team sweatshirt.

 

“Thank you, Mr, er…”

 

“Lestrade. Greg Lestrade. I'm the librarian.”

 

“Mycroft Holmes. It's a pleasure to meet you, Greg.”

 

And it genuinely was for this Greg possessed a fine head of thick silver hair and a pair of sultry brown eyes shining at him from behind a pair of tortoise shell reading glasses.

 

“Just moved here?”Greg asked.

 

“A couple of months. Doctor Johnson did not have it exactly right.” His heart soared as Greg tried and failed to hide a snigger. This gem of a man understood his literary allusion!

 

“It's lovely here. Very good for the soul. It's been six years for me, I couldn't imagine living anywhere else now.” said Greg with a wistful smile, tucking his hands in the pockets of his cardigan. “What can I do for you, Mycroft?”

 

“I desire some books.”

 

“Makes sense. Are you a member?”

 

“No,” said Mycroft, crestfallen. “What do I need to join?”

 

“That's okay. I just need a form of I.D. and I can sort you out with a card.”

 

Mycroft fumbled in his trouser pocket and pulled out his wallet which he thumbed through and handed Greg his driving licence.

 

“Excuse the picture, it makes me look like I've just been dug up.”

 

“Doesn't everyone's? Oh.  _ Professor. _ ”

 

“Sort of. Professor Emeritus now, I suppose. I was a medievalist at South Bank.”

 

“Interesting field.” said Greg, tapping Mycroft's details into the computer. “Holmes. Holmes. Hang on, didn't you write that biography of The Black Prince that caused such an uproar a few years ago? I thought I recognised the name! I thought it was brilliant.”

 

Mycroft despaired as he felt himself blush yet again but this was a day to remember. His work had been remarked upon favourably! And not by one of his academic peers, either. Truly, this was a great day.

 

“There,” said Greg, handing him his brand new library card. “You're all set.”

 

“Thank you very much. I have come to the conclusion that it's time I broadened my literary horizons and try a genre I haven't read in before.”

 

Greg smiled broadly, interest kindling in his eyes.

 

“Like what?” he asked.

 

“Nothing too heavy. A good thriller perhaps. Possibly even a love story though I do draw the line at...what's that appalling expression? Chick lit.”

 

“Do you trust me?” Greg asked.

 

“Possibly,” Mycroft replied, smiling.

 

“Let me pick for you.”

 

Mycroft sat and drank in Greg's back view as his hands moved over the library shelves then tried to pretend he hadn't been staring when Greg returned with a couple of novels in his hand which he handed to Mycroft.

 

“ _ The Chamber  _ by John Grisham and  _ Two Brothers  _ by Ben Elton. Why these two?”

 

“I think you'll enjoy them. One is a legal thriller, though the finer points of death penalty law are thankfully only of passing interest. The other is a gripping tale of growing up in Germany in the '30s. If neither of these makes you cry, you're not the man I think you are.”

 

Mycroft turned the books over in his hands admiring the cover art before smiling up at Greg.

 

“What kind of man do you think I am?”

 

“Someone who appreciates a good tale. Am I wrong?” Greg asked. “You're open to new experiences and I find that tremendously appealing.”

 

Greg cringed inwardly for that had sounded  _ awfully _ forward but he hadn't been able to stop himself.

 

Luckily the glorious redhead merely smiled and said.

 

“I'll give them a try. It's not like I've got any other plans for the weekend.”

 

Greg literally bit his lip to prevent him making a fool of himself by saying something he couldn't take back and took the books from Mycroft and checked them out for him.

 

“And now I need to close up,” said Greg with a real hint of regret. 

 

“Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realise the time.”

 

“It's fine. Just make sure you get here a bit earlier next time.” Greg suggested. Mycroft smiled at the thought of ‘'next time’. Would Monday evening be too soon?

 

*

 

Mycroft waited patiently in the small queue at the library checkout desk, surreptitiously watching Greg deal with the other library users with a great deal of patience and twinkly-eyed, middle-aged charm. When it was his turn he placed both books on the desk, pleased he had made a bit of an effort with his presentation this time. 

 

A chat with Mrs Hudson had revealed that the kindly librarian had once been a top criminal barrister and a surreptitious Google search had confirmed it. A fine man with a fine intellect who Mycroft was more than interested in getting to know better, especially if the feeling was mutual.

 

“Oh, hello again.” said Greg. He gestured to the books. “Did you enjoy them?”

 

“Enjoy them?” growled Mycroft. “The lawyer defending his racist grandfather on Death Row was emotive enough but dear God in heaven,  _ Two Brothers…” _

 

“Yeah,” said Greg softly. “It made me cry too.”

 

“Cry? I felt like my heart had been shredded.” Mycroft's expression changed to a teasing smile. “So, Greg. What else do you recommend?”

 

“Give me a minute,” said Greg, a familiar warmth blossoming in his chest. “I've got just the thing.”

 

When eight o'clock came, Greg found Mycroft at one of the tables, his crutches propped up beside him, deeply engrossed in  _ A Plague On Both Your Houses. _

 

“Like it?” Greg asked. “I thought with you being a medievalist…”

 

“I shied away from historical fiction because they always seemed to get things wrong,” admitted Mycroft. “This Susanna Gregory knows her stuff though and her protagonist is an excellent character.”

 

“I believe there are about twenty-one books in that series,” Greg informed him.”It's okay, I can request the ones I don't have from other libraries for you if you want.”

 

“That's extremely kind of you.” smiled Mycroft then checked his watch. “Oh dear. Is it closing time again?”

 

He hoped his unhappiness with the hour didn't show for nothing would have pleased him more than to spend the rest of the night in Greg's company quietly reading or discussing what they had read.

 

“I'm afraid so,” said Greg.”However, I'm going for a pint if you'd care to join me? I can guarantee good conversation and beer and a very comfy sofa.”

 

Greg crossed his fingers behind his back.

 

“You make a very compelling argument, Greg.”

 

“Famous for it, actually. Shall we?”

 

*

 

The pub was everything Greg had promised and the sofa was supremely comfortable when they were both sat on it drinking their beer. 

 

It wasn't often these days that Greg had an appreciative audience for his tales of life at the Bar but Mycroft was all admiration and informed questions and Greg was, in his turn, enthralled and amused by Mycroft's stories of the cutthroat world of academia. 

 

When the landlord called time neither of them looked happy for the night to end but as Greg helped Mycroft stand up and saw the flare of tiredness and discomfort in his eyes, Greg knew he would have to be the responsible one tonight.

 

“Thank you for tonight,” said Mycroft shyly as they parted company at the village green.

 

“It was fun,” Greg agreed. “Perhaps…” He was lost for words, a rare occurrence indeed but Mycroft was all lit up with anticipation so Greg soldiered on. “There is a wonderful new restaurant just opened in the next village. Would you like to join me for dinner tomorrow?”

 

“I'd like that very much,” replied Mycroft.

 

“Fantastic. I'll pick you up at seven, if that's okay.”

 

“Seven will be perfect. Goodnight, Greg.”

 

The anticipation of a kiss hung in the air between them but the heavy breathing and thudding feet of Jim Moriarty on his nightly run and heading straight for them dispersed that quickly.

 

“Evening,” gasped Jim as he swept past.

 

“Evening,Jim.” the two men chorused.

 

“So, seven tomorrow?” laughed Mycroft.

 

“I'll be there.” Greg replied with a smile.

 

*

 

As he swallowed the last bite of his strawberry gelato, Mycroft was struck again by how good Greg's judgement was. The meal had been a triumph; the conversation light and undemanding, occasional gigglesnorts notwithstanding.

 

“I've got something for you,” announced Greg, pushing away the dish that had held sticky toffee pudding and vanilla cream.

 

“You're in danger of ruining me,” said Mycroft. “Endless incredible books and fine dining. Whatever next?”

 

“It's a triad of a lovely evening.” Greg replied. “Good food, good conversation and good company. Here.”

 

Greg placed a tattered paperback book on the table and Mycroft picked it up.

 

“ _ A Place Called Winter _ ?”

 

“It's one of my favourite books of all time,” said Greg softly. “Look after it as it's my only copy, read it and tell me what you think.”

 

Mycroft skimmed the blurb on the back.

 

“Edwardian scandal? Sounds right up my street.”

 

“It's many things, that book.” Greg looked quite pensive. “Like I say, see what you think.”

 

They were interrupted by the waitress who seemed embarrassed at intruding. They assured her everything was delicious and that they didn't want coffee. 

 

The trip home in Greg's Range Rover passed in a comfortable well-fed silence and, as he pulled up outside Mycroft's house, Mycroft leaned over as far as he was able and kissed Greg gently on the cheek.

 

“Thank you for a lovely night,” he said, smiling.

 

“If you want, I like to feed the ducks on the pond before I open the library on a Wednesday,” said Greg in a rush.

 

“In that case, I'll be there to help you. Don't want the ducks to feel deprived, do we?”

 

On that note, he got out of the car and limped to his front door.

 

Nothing, absolutely  _ nothing  _ could wipe the smile from his face or keep him from visiting the duck pond tomorrow.

 

*

 

“It's today? Are you absolutely sure?”

 

Mrs Hudson stood with her hands on her hips and frowned.

 

“Of course it's today. I didn't ask Molly to mind the post office for fun you know. You're getting your plaster off. Then you can go back to wearing proper trousers again.”

 

“Ah, yes. That would be very pleasant indeed.”

 

Her grin turned knowing as she said “I expect your mind was on other things, was it?”

 

Yes.

 

“Don't be ridiculous. Let's go and get this over with.”

 

And with any luck I'll be back in time to help feed the ducks. 

 

*

 

Greg scattered the last of the birdseed at the edge of the pond, crumpled the paper bag and put it in his pocket.

 

“It's fine,” he said to the duck who swam up with her small brood of ducklings. “I'll come back tomorrow now this lot have hatched. You're going to need all the help you can get.”

 

He felt rather foolish talking to a duck but there was no one else to hear him and he felt a stab of disappointment. Mycroft's house had been dark and had a closed look when he had passed earlier. Obviously Mycroft had better things to do that day than hang around with him. And he thought things had been going so well.

 

“They'll take you away for talking to yourself like that,” said an amused voice as a warm hand slipped into Greg's and he turned slightly to drink in the sight of Mycroft unburdened by plaster but leaning on a walking stick.

 

“Sorry I'm late but I forgot today was the day I was getting my plaster off. Still aches a bit but I had a scratch that I had been dying for for six weeks.”

 

“I'm really glad you're here,” said Greg warmly, squeezing Mycroft's hand.

 

“I finished your book in the waiting room. You were right about it being many things but it was first and foremost a love story.”

 

“Yes, it was. A gay love story with a happy ending.”

 

Greg put his arms around Mycroft and held him close.

 

“It's something I always wanted in my own life but never thought I'd find.”

 

“Neither did I,” breathed Mycroft. “Till there was you. Now I think it might be possible.”

 

Greg leaned in and kissed Mycroft gently on the lips, anxious eyes seeking permission which provoked an impassioned response which left both men slightly breathless.

 

“I've got a lovely bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon at home,” Greg offered. “Fancy coming to help me drink it?”

 

“I'd love to. What about the library?”

 

“It can stay shut today,” said Greg. “Some things are much more important.”

 

“Then let's go. But slowly.”

 

Their laughter made Molly Moriarty look over to the duck pond from where she was walking.

 

The sight of the two men walking hand in hand made her smile but then her heart sank.

 

“I owe Martha a fiver.” she groaned. “I'll  _ never  _ hear the end of this…”

 

The End.

  
  
  
  



End file.
